Which Craft?
by chappysmom
Summary: John's new hobby comes in handy when he and Sherlock are asked to go undercover at a Craft Show. Which of his fellow craftsmen is a smuggler? And how will the officers from Scotland Yard react to John's surprisingly profitable hobby? (Part of the Wood Work series, 5 chapters.)
1. Chapter 1

**Summary**: Part 3 of the Wood Work series. John's new hobby comes in handy when he and Sherlock are asked to go undercover at a Craft Show. Which of his fellow craftsmen is a smuggler? And how will the officers from Scotland Yard react to John's surprisingly profitable hobby?

As always, I own nothing but my own plot. The rest belongs to the world created by Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC. I just like to play here. (Not beta'd or Brit-picked, so all errors are obviously my own.)

* * *

John looked up as Detective Inspector Lestrade came up the stairs, Sally Donovan trailing behind, an enigmatic look on her face.

He lowered his newspaper. "Greg?" he asked, trying to figure out why the man looked so uncomfortable. He'd come to the flat to beg Sherlock's services countless times, after all. What was different this time?

"I'm not interested," Sherlock called in from his bedroom, and John tried to look apologetic. His flatmate had been in a mood all day, and John was just as happy not to be in the same room as him for a while. Frankly, a distraction was welcome and he guiltily hoped Lestrade would take him off his hands for the afternoon.

"That's okay, Sherlock," Lestrade said, voice raised just enough to carry down the hallway. "I'm not here to see you anyway."

Now John dropped the paper. "What? Me?"

"John?" Sherlock was at the doorway, pulled as if by magic. The magic of not being wanted, thought John. It always worked on Sherlock. He looked again at Sally, who was looking like a child who had tattled on a mate. Curious now, he just waited.

"Look," Lestrade said, hands stuffed far into his pockets. "I know this is going to sound ridiculous, but Sally said I should ask, even though she won't tell me why."

"Ask what?" Without conscious thought, John was on his feet. He wasn't sure why, but something about this conversation made him want to be as mobile as possible.

"We've found evidence of a smuggling ring, but haven't been able to get anything concrete," Lestrade started to explain as Sally idly examined a paperweight on the desk, but Sherlock (of course) interrupted.

"Of course you haven't," Sherlock said with a snap, "But why do you need John?"

Lestrade just gave him a look that was almost amused at his childish insistence at being the center of attention. "Because Sally seems to think that John can provide us with cover for an undercover op. There's some kind of show coming up next weekend…"

"John can't make it," Sherlock said. "He's busy."

Lestrade reached up to rub the back of his neck and John felt a twinge of sympathy. He knew exactly how hard it was to deal with Sherlock on a normal day, let alone when he was in this kind of mood. Trying to make it easier for the poor man, he asked "What kind of show?" He was already turning his schedule over in his mind, wondering if he'd be able to work things out so he could help.

"It's a craft show, of all things," Lestrade said and John blinked, glancing at Sally who was still silently studying the paperweight and pretending to be deaf. "We were trying to figure out how we could infiltrate, but, well, it's not like policemen are going to be sitting around knitting, or whatever people do at these things." He gave a chuckle, not noticing Sally's small flinch. "But Sally said I should ask you, though she wouldn't say why."

John leaned forward to rummage in the papers on his desk. "Next weekend. That's the one at The Daley Center?" Lestrade's face went blank and at his stunned nod, John said, "Yeah, I'm at booth 36A. How can I help?"

"Booth …"

"Thirty-six-A," John repeated patiently, trying not to laugh at the flummoxed look on the man's face. "I'll be going over to set up on Thursday afternoon. What do you need?"

"Set up?"

Sherlock smirked as Lestrade visibly floundered in the middle of the room. "Haven't you noticed, Lestrade? John has quite the side business. I mean, even Sally knows about it."

John glared at his flatmate. "Be nice, Sherlock. It's not his fault it hasn't come up before."

"Not to discuss, perhaps, but is the man blind? The flat is full of your handiwork, John."

"That may be so, Sherlock, but it's all covered with piles of your stuff. He could be the most observant man in the world, but he's not Clark Kent."

"Clark Kent?"

John just sighed. "Superman, Sherlock, with X-ray vision." He looked over at Lestrade with a long-suffering smile. "I swear, he deletes every possible pop-culture reference as soon as it passes his ear drums."

Lestrade was looking around the flat, still bewildered, as if he was looking for homemade pot-holders, trying to figure out what John might be selling at a craft show. After watching for a moment, John took pity on the inspector's total confusion and said, "Anyway, yes, Greg. Mrs. Hudson convinced me to start doing shows, so as luck would have it, I've already got a spot at this one—which means you're lucky. This one sells out fast. You might have had trouble getting a spot otherwise." He gave the detective a smile and asked again, gently, "So, what do you need?"

Lestrade just shook his head, looking almost unsteady on his feet to Sherlock's ill-disguised glee. "I _need_ an explanation. What the hell are you selling at craft shows, John?"

There was a collective sigh around the room, then John reached for his keys and said, "Follow me," before leading Lestrade (and the others) down to 221C.

John couldn't help but smile at the look of awe on Lestrade's face as he stepped into 221C and saw all the hand-crafted furniture in various stages of completion. He hadn't invited many people down here—mostly just customers picking up finished pieces. Of his friends, only Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson had been here. And Sally, he supposed, though she didn't really count as a friend.

And so he watched with a hint of trepidation as Lestrade looked around, gently reaching out to stroke an end table stationed near the door. John watched him glance at the equipment, the workbench, and the amount of sawdust on the floor (not even Mrs. Hudson could keep up with it). Sally was looking around with interest, noting the changes since the last time she'd been here, while Sherlock stood with a malicious gleam in his eye, as if convinced Lestrade would say something insulting or misunderstand.

"Christ, John," the inspector finally breathed. "I had no idea. This …" His hand still stroked the glossy surface of the table. "This is incredible."

John ran a hand through his hair as he surveyed his shop. "It looks more impressive than it is, really. I don't usually have this much stuff, but with the show …"

"Right, the show," Lestrade said with a visible shake as he pulled his attention back where it belonged. "Now I know why Sally told me to talk to you, but why? Why keep all this a secret, John?"

John jerked his shoulders in a half-shrug. "It's not a secret, exactly, just … a hobby that gained a life of its own. It was something I did as a kid and when I started up again … it wasn't really something that mixed with murder investigations. Not something I was going to chat about at a crime scene, you know?"

"But you told Sally?" John could almost hear a twinge of hurt in Lestrade's voice.

"Not exactly," John said hastily. "More like we bumped into each other when I was looking for wool to test the spinning wheel I was making for Mrs. Hudson." Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the slight wince Sally made and he realized no-one knew of her hobby, either. For a moment he wanted to "out" her just like she had him, but his better nature exerted itself and he changed the topic. "So, since I'm going to be at the show, how can I help?"

Lestrade nodded, looking relieved to be back on familiar ground. "We have information that someone is using the show—this one and others—as a way of smuggling drugs, but we don't know who or how. Frankly, I was just hoping to find a vendor who'd let one of ours work undercover, but this is much better if you're willing, John. If you can help…."

John frowned. "Well, I'm happy to help, you know that, but I'll be tied up for most of the time, dealing with customers. Unless you want to provide sales help?"

"I could do that."

John and Lestrade both blinked as they looked at Sally and Sherlock, who were staring at each other.

"You, Freak? Dealing with the public? We'll have a homicide on our hands!"

Sherlock sniffed. "As if your interpersonal skills are so much better? Calling John's customers names, for example, would not be helpful."

"Neither would spouting all their secrets and embarrassing them," she retorted.

As one, John and Lestrade moved forward. "Now, kids, that's enough," Lestrade said. "We can find a use for both of you."

For just a moment, as they made eye contact, John had the feeling he knew exactly how his parents had felt when he and Harry used to fight.

#

In the end, it was both simple and not simple at all, getting everything arranged.

From John's end, he already had about nine thousand and three things that needed to get done before the show—making sure everything that he hoped to sell was in salable condition, making sure he had plenty of business cards and glossy handouts, making sure the breakable things were packed and ready to transport—the to-do list seemed endless.

Luckily, the added pressure of helping the Yard didn't actually make his job (right now) any harder. He just let Lestrade and Sherlock work out what else needed to be done for the sting, or whatever they were calling their operation. He just focused on making his booth look as good as possible because, (1) it needed to look convincing and (2) he really was here to make money. Furniture-grade wood was costly and he had expenses to cover.

His biggest concern was that Sherlock really was going to work as his sales assistant. Sherlock bloody Holmes. Conducting sales. With the innocent public.

That alone could go badly so, so easily. John would actually have preferred Sally for this—she might be abrasive (especially with Sherlock), but she at least had some manners when she needed them. Lestrade had decided, though, that she would be more convincing as a customer roaming the aisles than Sherlock and, well, it was hard to argue with that.

Rolling a carved paperweight in bubble wrap, John eyed his flatmate and tried not to feel uneasy about this. All Sherlock had to do was pretend to be a normal person for a day (or two). He could do that, right?

Except John was never sure where Sherlock's priorities lay. He knew without a doubt that Sherlock would not do anything to endanger John (or anybody else if it could be reasonably helped). He knew that Sherlock supported his hobby-slash-side-business because John enjoyed it and it gave him something to do when he needed to distract himself from Sherlock being, well, Sherlock. (John also liked the fact that it meant he had a sharp knife about his person at all times—and made sure Sherlock knew it. He sometimes suspected Sherlock was calculating exactly how long it would be before John took out a suspect with a chisel.) The point, though, was that he wasn't worried Sherlock would deliberately do anything to hurt his chances at actually selling things.

It was Sherlock _inadvertently_ doing something to hurt his chances that worried him.

Still, Sherlock looked actually … enthusiastic. That couldn't be a bad thing … could it? He had never come to a craft show with John before and, other than 'allowing' John to spend some of his time in 221C, had never shown much interest in his business before. He was supportive, but in his own, unique way.

If John didn't know better, he'd think Sherlock was looking forward to seeing people admire John's work.

He just hoped Sherlock wouldn't be disappointed. Most people attended craft shows to buy smallish items—jewelry, pottery, photographs. Large-ticket items like paintings or large-as-in-bulky items were often skimmed past. Buying a hand-crafted desk wasn't the same kind of impulse buy as a glass bauble, after all, and in the handful of shows John had attended, he had spent a large part of his time sitting by himself.

He was fine with that, really. Wood-working was his hobby, not his primary source of income. He found he was happy just to chat with people who stopped to admire his work. He had even had a sale or two later on, from someone who'd taken one of his cards home. Really, it was relaxing—a welcome change from his usual. There were certainly worse ways to spend a day.

Adding a bored Sherlock Holmes to the mix, though, along with a team of the Yard's finest?

This show could be very interesting indeed.

#


	2. Chapter 2

"A little help here, Sherlock?" John tried not to sound too out-of-breath as he maneuvered the dolly through the doorway, hoping the pile of boxes wouldn't topple as he tried to lean forward to reach the door with his hand.

"What? Oh." Sherlock reached a careless arm to hold the door. "You would think there would be a more efficient way to do that."

"A good helper wouldn't hurt," John mumbled, mostly to himself, but Sherlock's ears caught it anyway.

"I thought you couldn't afford an assistant yet?" Sherlock asked, and then his face stilled and he turned away to open the second door.

John tried not to feel guilty. It was so hard to tell whether Sherlock was showing real emotion (however masterfully shielded) or was faking to manipulate someone … usually John. He sighed and tried not to feel like a soft touch as he said, "Well, a _paid_ assistant would definitely hold doors—if not actually carry things for me."

"Don't be silly, John. Would you trust me with your breakable, hand-crafted items? You know how careless I am." Sherlock snatched the top box from the pile and twirled it between his hands while John gritted his teeth. Sherlock was better at winding him up these days than even Harry.

"Why do you think you're an _unpaid_ assistant, Sherlock?" John said with as much grace as he could manage. "Besides, you've got other things to think about, no doubt."

"True," Sherlock said as he casually tossed the box back to the pile, causing John to catch his breath until he saw the stack was staying steady. Sherlock gave a small smirk. "Really, John, you need to relax."

"Like that's likely to happen," John said. "Because, really, what could go wrong?"

He should have known better. It wasn't that he was superstitious, exactly, but years of experience (and too many horror films when he was a kid) had taught him to never, ever say that.

And now … the words were barely out of his mouth when Sherlock—still walking backwards with a too-smug smirk on his face—collided with a woman carrying a large box liberally marked "FRAGILE."

Well … it could have been worse. While she did drop the box, Sherlock's admirable reflexes stopped it from hitting the floor. John was even able to stop his trolley in time _not_ to run them over, and he only lost the top two boxes off his pile. (Really, he had no sympathy for one of them landing on Sherlock's toe. It served him right for playing with it in the first place.)

As a way to make a first impression, though … well, their fellow vendor wasn't going to be forgetting them any time soon. "What the hell do you think you're doing? Watch where you're bloody going!"

John immediately started apologizing. (He felt like half his life was spent apologizing for Sherlock Holmes.) "I am so sorry. You're absolutely right. We should have been more careful. I hope nothing's broken?"

He might have held his breath since the woman's full, horrified attention was riveted on Sherlock as he dramatically hopped on one foot, trying to ease his toe, all while clutching her large, fragile box. He would likely have continued to milk the injury for attention, but John's glare and angry "Oi!" made him pause and nod his head toward the irate woman. "I apologize. I should have been watching where I was going, even though you were walking on the wrong side of the aisle, since most people tend to stay to the left, in which case there would have been plenty of room for you to pass safely. American?"

"Wh … what?"

"Are you American? Canadian? It would explain walking on the right."

She blinked at him, still clearly furious, and then spat out, "American, not that it matters, because if you've broken anything in that box, you're buying it."

Sherlock sniffed and looked ready to let loose a cutting reply, but John's glare finally made an impression. "I'm sure there's no trouble. If your box has made it this far, this small boggle can't have done any harm. May I carry this the rest of the way to your booth? I'm sure John won't mind."

John shook his head, riveted by this show of manners. Sherlock might not choose to show them often, but when he did, they were a thing of beauty. Automatically, John trailed after the two of them wheeling his cart of boxes while Sherlock did his best to soothe her temper. He couldn't count the number of times he'd seen Sherlock rile someone's temper, but watching him calm someone down never failed to entrance. Sherlock regularly got away with such appalling behavior from sheer charisma and force of personality, it was easy to forget that he could actually be calming when he needed to be.

One couldn't forget that he was supposed to be undercover just now, either. He had promised up and down that he would behave himself and act properly as John's assistant—though John had few expectations on that score. More than anyone he knew, Sherlock was master of his own fate and assistant to no-one.

John leaned on the handle of the trolley while Sherlock helped settle the woman (Lisa, he found out). Sherlock offered to wait while she checked for anything broken in her box, but she insisted that wasn't necessary and, all in all, by the time Sherlock was done, she was practically flirting with him.

And wasn't that always the way, John thought. Without even trying, Sherlock had no trouble pulling women (or men) into his gravity. At this rate, Lisa would be giving him gifts, forget about insisting on payment. John just smiled to himself as he looked around at the other booths. Some of them were elaborate, like full stage sets with colors and displays designed solely to set off their wares. It made his own booth look positively Spartan—though since his booth had only a few, large-ish items, he didn't need the stage-dressing as much as some of the smaller booths. His furniture made its own statement, he liked to think. Luckily it was comfortable, too, since he usually ended up sitting for long periods of time at these things.

Easing his cranky leg, he thought about the spindles Sally had asked for. After her spinning lesson, she had asked if he could make her a drop spindle. (_"I can't afford your wheel, but could you make a spindle? Would it be hard?"_) It wasn't as challenging as a spinning wheel, but John had become intrigued by the dynamics. It looked deceptively simple—just a straight shaft with a circular whorl and a small metal cup hook to catch the yarn as you spun. Almost elegant in its simplicity, but while each spindle he made spun, some of them spun better than others.

Before long, he was experimenting, trying to figure out why. He played with ratios and depths. Tested thicknesses and rims. Weights and size. He perfected the balance. He did whatever he could think of, adding shaping, polishing so there was nothing to cause friction, making sure nothing would slow down the spin. The goal was to have the spindle rotate as fast and for as long as humanly possible, and John found it oddly challenging … one of those projects that looks easy but has hidden depths.

This was the first show with them, and he had no idea how well they were likely to sell. People coming to this show were mostly looking for finished items they could buy (or in his case, hopefully, commission). They weren't looking for crafts to do themselves, but … one never knew.

Maybe instead of sitting and whittling the day away, he would spin—show what his spindles could do.

Or, of course, pay attention and help catch a smuggler.

"I said, come along, John." Sherlock's voice cut through his reverie.

Oh yes, with that tone of voice, people would absolutely believe he was here as John's assistant. No problem there, he thought, and with a sigh and a nod to a now-pacified Lisa, he pushed his cart along in Sherlock's wake.

#

On their walk to John's booth, Sherlock kept a running commentary on the vendors at other booths, noting who had money problems, which ones were having affairs, and also making observations about their wares. "That one won't be any competition for you, John," he said, pointing out a booth filled with jewelry made from intricately twisted wire. "The quality is nowhere near as high as for your pieces."

"Er, thank you, Sherlock," John said, amusement tinging his voice. "It's also a _jewelry_ booth. People looking for a new pair of earrings rarely ever decide to get matching chairs instead."

"Don't be silly, John. People come to a show like this to look at everything—that's why there is such a variety. If they were only interested in baubles, they'd go a jewelry show. Your booth is just as likely to make a sale as any of these others. Certainly more than that one," he added with a sniff as they passed a booth of pottery in shades of puce and vomit.

John hid a smile as he hurried past the potter, carefully putting his vases on a shelf. "You don't think one of those would look good on…"

"No," said Sherlock firmly. "Not possible. Your work is quality craftsmanship and should not be expected to help raise the tone for the less fortunate craftspeople."

John ducked his head, pleased at the rare compliment, and wasn't watching when Sherlock stopped abruptly. "Do pay attention, John. You want your things _in_ the booth, not scattered on the floor around it."

They worked companionably for a time, setting up John's display. At Sherlock's insistence, they made it look like a cozy sitting room rather than merely a booth with random items out for sale. John wondered at that. Why would Sherlock care? Judging by the eclectic, crazy chaos of 221B, you'd never think the man had an aesthetic bone in his body, but then (John supposed) Sherlock had grown up with money. Perhaps he'd absorbed a sense of décor along with his knowledge of Old Masters paintings and the means of detecting fraudulent antiques.

John just shook his head as Shelock tut-tutted at his display of spindles and dashed off, only to return half an hour later with a vase (thankfully not puce-colored) in which he arranged the spindles as if they were flowers. Shortly afterward, he darted away to get tea and was gone almost an hour as John worked to finish his set-up. John tried not to be annoyed. Don't forget, he reminded himself, we're not just here to sell furniture. Sherlock's here to find a smuggler, too. He can't do that if he spends all his time at your booth. The whole point is for him to look around.

But, still, there was a small part of him that felt abandoned every time Sherlock ran off. He told himself he was being silly—originally he would have been here alone, after all—but there was still that nagging feeling he couldn't quite shake.

"Your assistant doesn't much like to assist, does he?"

John turned at the wry voice and saw the vendor from the next booth watching him. "Yeah, well, he didn't want to come in the first place," he said. "I'm just grateful for whatever help he _does_ give—and hopefully he'll be better tomorrow, once there are customers."

A lifted eyebrow. "Seems like an awfully short attention span, but you know him better than I do. Frank Travers."

"John Watson."

The two men shook hands and John tried not to fidget as the man looked over his pieces. (Why was he still so self-conscious about this?) "Nice furniture," Frank finally said.

"Thanks. It was a hobby when I was a boy, but I've only just gotten back into it. It was my landlady's idea to come here, today." He gave a laugh. "Maybe I should have gotten her to help out."

"Don't be silly, John," came Sherlock's voice. "She would never be able to do the heavy lifting."

"You're not exactly doing much, either, Sh…"

"Surely, not," Sherlock interrupted. "Because then how would have I have been able to provide tea?" He handed a cup to John and then held out his hand to Frank. "How do you do. Steve Sigerson. I'm sorry I didn't think to bring you a cup."

"That's no trouble," said Frank as he introduced himself. "I really shouldn't be bothering you while you set up. It looks good, though. John says it's your first time at a show?"

John nodded. "I was telling him how I had to twist your arm to get you to come, Steve. Because, yeah, it's his first, though I've been to a couple in the last six months. I'm still feeling my way. I'm good at the carving, but pants at the business side. Luckily my landlady used to run an antiques shop and has helped with a lot."

Frank was staring at the furniture again, obviously thinking hard. "And the two acorns? That seems familiar—wasn't that a logo somebody used decades ago? Or didn't that expert landlady of yours tell you?" There was a faint, snickering undercurrent to his words.

John felt his smile turn slightly feral at the man's hidden jab. "Well, Mum would never have forgiven me if I'd switched trademarks now. Like I said, I used to do this when I was a boy, but my pieces still sell. It's one of the reasons Mrs. H. was so certain I could make a go of it now, when I've got so much time to fill."

He was gratified at the look of surprised respect on the other man's face, but all Frank said was, "Time to fill?"

"Since I got home from the army," John said, noting the man's sudden tension.

"Army? So … you were a soldier, then?" The man's feet shifted closer to the aisle.

"Doctor," John told him. "I was in the RAMC until I … well, it's a long story. Let's just say finding a way to bring in some extra money doesn't hurt."

"Really? That's too bad. They should take better care of our wounded vets, I always say." He had edged slightly closer again and John tried not to blink at the sudden edge to the man's face, as if everything had sharpened suddenly. He couldn't think what he had done to suddenly excite the man's interest, and then remembered—they were here to find a smuggling ring. Which made the turn of conversation … interesting as Frank continued, "So, if you've only done a couple shows, where else have you been selling your work?"

"Locally, mostly," John told him, "But I've been getting orders from farther afield as I build up my reputation again. It helps that people still remember the two-acorn logo—which came as a total surprise to me. I'd completely lost touch while I was in the RAMC, and things didn't get easier afterward. I mean, a man can't live on an army pension these days, if he ever could. That's how Steve and I met—we're flatmates, though this isn't really his thing."

Frank was studying Sherlock now. Undercover or not, he was dressed in his usual designer trousers and shirt (though he'd left the suit jacket at home)—he didn't remotely look like he needed a flatmate. Observing the man's skepticism, Sherlock nodded. "Not hardly, but one does what one can for old friends—at least until he can get on his feet again."

The slight tension in Frank's face had softened. "That's good of you. Well, I should be getting back to my booth. I'm just across the aisle if you need anything." He pointed to the booth of ugly ceramics John and Sherlock had noticed before.

"That's good of you, thanks," John said as they shook hands again. As he turned away though, he caught Sherlock watching Frank and nodded slightly when his friend looked his way. Sherlock had probably noticed more than John had, and they were agreed—the man was acting suspiciously.

Maybe John would be able to focus on actually selling furniture this weekend after all.

#


	3. Chapter 3

The place was packed, filled with holiday shoppers looking for something unique to gift this year. John found he was grateful after all for Sherlock's assistance.

Not that he was around as often as John would have liked. He kept darting off to "investigate," though John had his suspicions that Sherlock just couldn't stand having to Deal with People. Because John's booth was surprisingly popular. He didn't know if it was the cozy set up—some older women had taken the opportunity to rest their feet for a few moments—or if it was the draw of the drop spindles.

He had to admit that their popularity came as a surprise. Early in the day, he'd pulled out a handful of wool and one of his spindles and started to spin as a way of passing the time. He'd forgotten how soothing it was, and was almost annoyed when the first person stopped to ask what he was doing.

After that … well, he wouldn't say his booth was crowded, exactly, but it wasn't as deserted as it had been at his other shows. People stopped to see him spinning, often thinking at first that he was playing with an odd yo-yo, but they ended up admiring his carved pieces and flipping through his book of finished items.

Really, he sold more than he had expected. And judging by the interest, he was going to need to make more spindles as soon as he was home.

He caught some envious glances from some of the other vendors (including Frank, whose puce-colored pottery was staying leadenly on his shelves), but John made a point of being friendly and helpful. He didn't need any personal grudges, thank you very much.

After all, he had Sherlock with him. If anyone was going to ruffle feathers, it would be him.

Sally had stopped by early in the day and spent some time looking at the spindles. "These are really lovely. Are they hard to use?" she'd asked. And so he'd demonstrated and, as she stepped closer, mentioned their suspicions of Frank across the aisle as she browsed through his vase of spindles. "This one is gorgeous."

"Thank you. It's £30, made with redheart and maple."

"I don't know, though. There are so many other things to look at. Could you maybe hold it for me?"

John was almost surprised at the sincerity in her voice—he was too accustomed to the abrasive Sgt. Donovan (especially when Sherlock was around). While he had talked to her about crafting and they had occasionally had an almost-friendly conversation, it still always surprised him.

Though why this request should, he didn't know. After all, she was the one who had encouraged him to make spindles in the first place. He had even given her his first successful one as a thank you, so the fact that she wanted to purchase one now? "Er, yes, I can put that aside for you," he managed, hating himself for the stammer.

"Of course," came Sherlock's voice from the other side of the booth, "If it's not picked up in a reasonable length of time, we'll have to make it available to other customers. We're here on business, after all." Sally blushed a bit at the acerbic reminder that they were supposed to be working.

"Here," John said, "Let me give you my card. If you get held up at another booth, just call and I'll hold it a little longer."

She leaned forward as she took the card. "It's harder than I expected—being undercover as a shopper makes me want to _shop_" She said quietly with a sheepish smile, and then stepped back, flourishing the card. "Thank you, I appreciate it. I _will_ be back." And, adjusting her purse on her shoulder, she was gone into the crowd.

#

The rest of the day was busy but uneventful from an investigative point of view—for John at least. He'd been busy selling, and had sold more than he had really expected to. (He had to admit he felt very chuffed about that.) On the other hand, Sherlock hadn't found anything solid to tie Frank (or anyone else) to the smuggling operation despite his peregrinations around the floor.

"If we could just get into his booth," he was saying as John scarfed down a quick hamburger, starved after the long day.

John tilted his head in a not-quite-headshake. "Sure, if you could be sure Frank wasn't there. I agree that he seems the most likely suspect—not that I had a chance to walk the entire show like you did. He seems too careful to leave things lying around, though."

"Which is why you need to distract him."

John nodded. Right. Of course, because they'd need to … "Wait. What?"

"He obviously was interested in recruiting you, John. You just need to show some interest. Or, no, not even that. Nothing so complicated. Just be yourself—an ex-soldier struggling to make ends meet. You won't even need to act."

"You do realize that Lestrade's got a whole team working on this, right?"

"Of course, but none of them are the craftsman that Frank expressed interest in. You're the only one who can do it—to get him out of his booth for enough time for us to investigate."

John just looked at him, brain frozen. He'd planned on spending the night polishing some of the spindles in his workshop, wrapping up some more paperweights. (It wasn't a surprise that he sold more small items than large ones.) He was at this show to sell things, after all. He'd bought his space months ago and had planned ahead and everything.

But—he was here to help Scotland Yard, too. They'd come to him for help—_him_—rather than Sherlock. Other than the occasional medical emergency at a crime scene, that was the first time that had ever happened. He didn't want to let them down.

He was sure all of this showed in his face as he frantically tried to think of how much time he would need to get everything done before the show opened again tomorrow morning. He wasn't used to this, to his two lives colliding. Oh, Sherlock's demands managed to interfere with all of it—there was barely a facet of his life not infused by Sherlock's needs.

Except for his woodworking.

Oh, sure, Sherlock interfered with that, too, but more in a John-I-need-you-it's-an-emergency, time-suck kind of way. He pulled John away from having the time to work, but he didn't actually affect the work itself. Nor did he interfere in what John was making or what he was doing with his pieces. He obviously approved (or John would definitely have heard about it by now), but he didn't _interfere_.

In other words, until this case, John's woodcraft was the only part of his life (outside of sleeping) that was solely his.

Now, not only was Sherlock helping at the show, commenting on his displays, his sales tactics, but apparently all of Scotland Yard knew about his hobby. Not that he was ashamed of it, or had actively kept it secret, but … wood-working was the only piece he had left of his life _Before_—before Sherlock, before the army, before medical school. Before his dad died.

He opened his mouth … he wasn't even sure what he was going to say to Sherlock, but he didn't get the chance. "It's just a case, John. It doesn't touch your Work. Meeting the man for drinks won't affect your artistic integrity, or whatever it is you're concerned with."

John blinked, caught off-guard not so much by Sherlock's keen insight (he both expected that even as he was regularly surprised by it) as at the emphasis on the word "work," as if John's hobby carried the same weight as Sherlock's detecting.

He must have misunderstood.

#

Sherlock prowled the craft show floor. It had a completely different feel tonight. Last night all the vendors had been buzzing with anticipation, but today—after a long day of salesmanship—everyone looked somewhat shell-shocked.

He was ostensibly there to pack up John's booth for the night, but instead he was circling the floor, flashing his Charming Smile and making polite chitchat (he _hated_ polite chitchat) about how everyone's day had gone.

It was excruciating. Necessary, though. He had worked hard today, establishing a cover of a man reluctantly finagled into helping a friend. He'd done the bare minimum of work in John's booth while circling the floor, flirting with all and sundry and doing his best to come across as a man with the attention span of, well, everybody else on the planet.

And so, he circled now, pretending he was looking for John because he didn't know how to close up the booth on his own. (That last part was actually true.) It wasn't until he ran into his old acquaintance Lisa that his excuse was nullified. Obviously she'd been watching. That was curious, he thought, as he deflected her much-too-obvious flirting. Why was she watching?

As it was, he stalled long enough that most of the other vendors had packed up for the night while he flounced around John's booth in a singular display of inept bad temper, grumbling all the while about being abandoned and how he hadn't wanted to come and how dare John treat him like this?

It was odd, though. The more he griped for the show of it, the more the words seemed to stick in his own throat. Even though he had forced John to leave—to interview their prime suspect, nonetheless—the more Sherlock acted abandoned and disgruntled, the more real it felt. John—lucky John¬—was getting to _investigate_-which everyone knew was really Sherlock's job—and he was stuck here, doing John's grunt work.

He paused a moment, a plastic sheet in his hand, as the thought struck. When had he started thinking of John's contribution as grunt work?

Sherlock blinked a moment as the thoughts raced through his head. When had that happened? Oh, he knew that John's contributions were less important than his. (In all modesty, they _were_.) John was so very good at the boring legwork and dull paperwork. Nor did he seem to mind taking care of the daily necessities like shopping and running errands. Those mundane details that had always gotten in Sherlock's way. It was a relief to have someone take care of them for him.

But that wasn't all John did. He provided an extraordinary focus that helped Sherlock piece things together faster than even he could do on his own. He had a knack for asking the right questions—actual good questions rather than the stupid, annoying ones that most people asked. He further had an insight into the way normal people thought that was often quite helpful. Add to that his medical expertise and his fighting skills from the army, and John was anything but boring.

Sherlock frowned down at the sales receipts, chasing after the glimmer of a thought that had tantalized. He could almost taste the words that had bothered him on the back of his tongue.

Grunt work.

It was true that much of what John did could be considered grunt work. But—why would that bother Sherlock? He was reasonably certain he would understand why it might bother John, but … his eyes strayed from the paperwork across the display of carved paperweights, skimming past the furniture built with painstaking patience.

Because that's what John _did_, after all. He looked (and even acted) completely ordinary on the outside, but then he would do something unexpected and beautiful to display those delicious hidden depths that kept him from ever being boring. He would leap into a fight or snap into action to save someone's life. It was a rare thing for Sherlock to get a glimpse of _Captain_ Watson or _Doctor_ Watson, but the sight never failed to intrigue him.

John only looked ordinary, after all, he mused as he fingered the spindle John had been twirling all afternoon. One must never forget that the man who complained about fingers in the crisper or insisted on regular meals (dull) did all those things by choice.

Sherlock tried never to forget that—of all the people he'd known throughout his life—John Watson was the only one who'd stayed with him (by choice). The only one who was, in fact, a friend.

It was easy to forget (even for Sherlock) that this alone made John Watson remarkable.

Sherlock picked up the spindle and, mimicking John's actions, twirled it against his thigh as his fingers pulled at the fiber, stretching it thin to make a thread, letting the twist bind it all together as John had done all day, and … the spindle crashed to the floor.

Okay. Fine. It was only his first attempt. He had misjudged the speed of the twist. He picked the spindle up off the floor and tried to figure out how to rejoin the fiber, growling in frustration as the spindle fell again as soon as he let go. He cast his mind back to John's occasional mishap earlier and then teased out the twist on the leader and tried again. And again. It took another five tries until the fibers caught and held.

He frowned again. Why would anyone _ever_ want to do this? Hadn't mankind evolved past needing to make thread with sticks ages ago? (A hundred years ago? More? The length of time was unimportant, he decided. The only part that mattered was that it had been done so that people could simply buy what they needed.)

So why would John _know_ this? It was hardly a useful skill to an army doctor. It wasn't like he owned a herd of sheep or had a wife who liked to knit (shudder). It was a completely useless bit of arcane knowledge, and bloody hell, the damn thing had broken again.

Sherlock snatched it up off the floor and thrust it back under the counter. Ridiculous. Waste of time. And yet … it was something John made look so easy. And satisfying.

Sherlock couldn't understand that. John was not a stupid person, yet he was happy frittering away his time (time that could be spent helping Sherlock) fiddling with things in his hands. These days, he almost always had a knife and something to whittle with him. Or a sketchbook and pencil, if they were going somewhere wood shavings would be inappropriate. (The fact that John could sketch at all had come as a shock, though not as much as the wood-carving thing.) And now this? Spinning?

Sherlock was well aware that not everyone considered the body mere transport for their brains. John's insistence on regular meals and proper rest blah blah blah only cemented him firmly in that collection of cells and bones and skin that made up his body. Intelligent (comparatively) though he may be, John found it … beneficial … to be physically active, to be doing things. In the absence of more active endeavors (like chasing criminals or helping Sherlock), he seemed most content when keeping his hands busy.

Which was something Sherlock could not understand. His entire life, he had _loathed_ busy work. Even more than boredom. Boredom might be mind-numbing, but not in quite the same way as the tasks adults would set him when he complained about it. Work should be necessary, not something generated solely to keep busy.

But wasn't "keeping your hands busy" just another form of busy work? So why would it make John so content?

He gave the spindle another twirl, slower this time, as he frantically tried to draft the fibers in his hand, and then bit off a curse as the spindle fell yet again. Drop spindle, indeed, he thought. That was well-named by some sadistic person back in pre-history. Dropping was all the stupid thing wanted to do.

The whole thing was a waste of time. He was here to investigate, not … twiddle. It was just this kind of distracting ephemera that kept John doing the boring grunt work, after all. If the man ever actually focused on doing just one thing, if he eliminated all these pointless, fidgety distractions, he could accomplish so much more.

But Sherlock's gaze was captured again by the booth filled with things created solely out of John's "busy work." Created during hours carved out of the surgery, or stolen after cases. Moments borrowed from his needed sleep or necessary errands.

John had created all of this, driven by a need that Sherlock couldn't quite understand. But unlike Sherlock's revelations, John's efforts had left something tangible in their wake.

This … this booth … these things … There was nothing here about grunt work.

#

* * *

NOTE: If you don't know how spinning on a drop spindle works and are curious, here's a video for you: www DOTyoutubeDOTcom/watch?v=FrZcr7_qXFY. Spindles themselves can be a thing of beauty.


	4. Chapter 4

It was Sunday lunchtime, and John was on his own in the booth. Sherlock had left (ostensibly for lunch, though John knew better than to expect he would eat anything), and John was manning the booth on his own. If anything, it was more crowded than it had been earlier and John was trying to adapt his thinking. He hadn't expected to be so popular!

He was so busy, in fact, that he barely had time to ponder the conversation he and Sherlock had had last night. His friend had been … odd. First, he had failed to find anything in Frank's booth … He claimed he'd been interrupted before he could search thoroughly, but John didn't know what to make of that. When had Sherlock ever let someone keep him from investigating to his satisfaction? (Thugs with guns or rope or other deterrents didn't count, of course.)

Beyond that, though, Sherlock seemed oddly reluctant to discuss the day's events at all. Other than his brief report of accomplishing pretty much nothing, he had merely quizzed John on his evening with Frank and then started playing the violin with such focus, John had not been able to get another word from him all night.

Not that John had had much to report, either. Frank—an individual John would be more than happy never to speak to again—had spent the entire time making snide comments about all their fellow vendors. He had offered so much "advice" to John that he had made Sherlock in full Deductive Exposition Mode seem like he was keeping secrets. The man had talked John's bloody ear off, always with a faux-jovial manner that barely covered his general contempt for just about everyone on the planet, so far as John could tell.

All in all, he'd spent better evenings.

The worst part was that he hadn't found anything to pin on the man. Frank's conversation had been suggestive, the way he'd talked about finding "creative" ways to make ends meet, or "alternative income streams" and "undisclosed sources," but he had never said anything concrete. (At all, John thought ruefully, on any topic. The entire night had been nothing but nasty, innuendo-filled bluster.)

Called back to the present by a customer, he tried to ignore the dirty looks he was getting from Frank's practically-empty booth across the aisle. At this rate, nobody was going to believe John's hobby was draining his near-empty bank account. Not everyone was buying, but he was getting enough traffic to dispel the image of a down-on-his-luck ex-army doctor.

Not that he minded, exactly. It was why he was here, after all, even if he'd hoped to be more help to Scotland Yard.

He had just concluded a sale and was making a mental note to find some decent learn-to-spin pamphlets (because who knew spinning was so popular?), when a nasal voice behind him said, "So, this is what you do with your free time? Anything to get away from the Freak, eh?"

John turned to see Anderson standing belligerently in front of his booth. "At least my time is being spent productively, Anderson. What are you doing here?" It was a good question—the man was in forensics and had no business on an undercover op.

"It's a public event, Watson. I can go where I want."

"Looking for a gift for the wife? There are some lovely vases across the way she might like."

Anderson had turned to look at Frank's wares and then turned back. "What are you saying? They're hideous."

John just shrugged and smiled politely. "They may not be her taste. I've never met her, after all."

"No, but she did pick _you_, after all." Sherlock was back, holding two cups of tea, one of which he passed to John. "But there's no accounting for taste."

"As if you had any," Anderson said with a sneer. "Eyeballs in the microwave?"

"That was an experiment, not a design detail, but I wouldn't expect you to know the difference," Sherlock said with a smirk. "Can I interest you in a piece of fine, hand-crafted furniture? A nice desk, perhaps? Something to inspire you to greater heights in your work?"

Anderson sneered right back. "One of these? No offense, Watson, but they're kind of small, don't you think? Some of us have _real_ computer systems, you know, and need sufficient space."

Sherlock just smiled, and John recognized the gleam in his eyes—and braced himself. "Haven't you heard, Anderson? Bigger isn't necessarily better. It's all about efficiency and performance."

Oh, no. John almost couldn't believe his ears. Had Sherlock really just …? Anderson certainly thought he had, because the sneer had dropped off his face. Now it was flooded with rage as he sputtered … and Sherlock just watched, eyes alight with mischief and calculation. He was revving Anderson up for something, but John didn't know what. He just hoped Sherlock remembered how many breakable things he had in his booth.

Then he saw where Sherlock was standing—directly between Anderson and Frank's booth of ugly, suspicious, _breakable_ porcelain.

He remembered Sherlock saying he hadn't been able to investigate Frank's booth.

He remembered Sherlock being convinced that the evidence they needed was hidden in there somewhere.

He remembered Sherlock discussing how it was possible to hide things in pottery, baking them right into the base.

He remembered Sherlock saying he would find another way to investigate.

He remembered the years' worth of animosity between Sherlock and Anderson.

Suddenly, it wasn't his own booth he was worried about—though he did wonder if Scotland Yard would cover the costs if his merchandise were damaged in what he was sure was about to become a melee.

#

As if his realization had been a starter's pistol, John had barely blinked when Anderson responded to Sherlock's most recent taunt with "At least I have a wife, Freak! You've got a flatmate who clearly tries to spend as much time away from you as possible."

"Don't bring John into this, Anderson. You don't know what you're getting yourself into," Sherlock said, his eyes narrowing. To anybody else, he would look like a man on the edge of a jealous rage, but John knew better. Sherlock was having _fun_. He was the consummate actor, after all, and now, with an an excuse to antagonize Anderson (however spurious, however unknown to everyone outside his own head)? It might as well have been Christmas.

And so John was almost resigned as he watched Sherlock goad Anderson into taking the first swing. He watched as Sherlock very carefully did _not_step out of the way, but instead stumbled backwards through the crowd thronging the aisle.

"That's the best you can do?" he taunted, licking at the dot of blood on his lip. "I should have known. Isn't there _anything_ you're competent at? Nothing you can do properly?"

"Oh, you're going to show me how to throw a punch? You?" Anderson looked like a cartoon character about to blow his hair off from steam, and John took a step forward, thinking to protect the innocent bystanders (and his furniture), but stopped at the tiny headshake Sherlock sent his way.

"Obviously you could use lessons from someone," Sherlock said, backing into the center of the aisle. "Even Sally can throw a better punch. Maybe that's something else she could teach you?"

John actually saw the man slip into an unthinking rage. One minute Anderson was having a fight, the next he was completely out of control.

And lunging at Sherlock.

…Who neatly caught the punch headed his way and then _swung_ Anderson in a circle, letting go just in time for the man to crash headfirst into Frank's display of pottery.

#


	5. Chapter 5

It took all John had _not_ to react to the sudden screams as Sherlock goaded Anderson into lunging into Frank's booth like … well, that old cliché about a bull in a china shop was as apt an analogy as John could think. Certainly with his face contorted with unthinking rage, Anderson looked as close to bull-like as a man of his stature could manage. More like a Bull Terrier, really, but either way … angry.

Say what you want about Anderson (and John could say a lot), the man wasn't a _total_ idiot. Enraged as he was, he wasn't blind to the fact that he had just crashed into a booth filled with breakable, handmade items, no matter how ugly. He struggled to his feet with a look of horror on his face, but he had barely risen when Sherlock grabbed at his coat. With as fine a grasp of aerodynamics, gravity, and lift as John had seen, Sherlock pushed him forcefully and accurately right into the biggest display shelf in the booth, all while ranting about "how dare he suggest he couldn't fight," and that he knew "Baritsu," whatever that was supposed to be.

Really, it was all John could do to stop laughing. The look on Anderson's face was priceless—he had clearly never expected Sherlock to lash out physically at what was a fairly routine exchange of insults. He looked almost frightened as Sherlock loomed over him.

Sherlock, of course, looked like he was having the time of his life—though it was well hidden behind a mask of anger that John was sure was as fake as the crocodile tears he used to get people to confess.

But Frank … well, Frank looked well and truly enraged. He looked at the shards of pottery littering his booth and turned to Anderson with a look that would have made a stronger man quail.

Anderson—being Anderson—looked like he was going to faint.

John was probably the only one who saw Sherlock take advantage of Frank's justifiable distraction to step behind the counter to pick up one of an identical series of figurines and hurl it smashing to the floor.

John was just thinking he really should go over and divert Frank before Anderson got his nose broken when Lestrade came bustling over. "Break it up," he ordered.

"Break it up?" Frank yelled, voice incredulous as he stared at the remains of his merchandise littered on the floor. "Break it UP? LOOK AT THIS!_EVERYTHING_ is broken! Who's gonna pay for all this?"

Lestrade moved forward as Sally came running up. "What happened here?" he asked, looking at the bruise forming on Sherlock's cheek and the broken pottery in Anderson's hair.

"He punched me, and I'm afraid I lost my temper," Sherlock said, lips twitching.

"Lost your _temper_?" Anderson practically shouted the words. "You threw me into the bloody booth, you … _Freak_!"

Sally was holding Anderson's arm, supporting him while he found his legs, and looked furiously at Sherlock, who was completely unconcerned. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said calmly, toeing at the debris, "Though it seems a lucky coincidence, since there seems to be something hidden in this pottery."

Everybody looked blankly down at the shards on the floor, noting the plastic-wrapped item breaking free from the monkey figurine. Lestrade slowly bent over and picked it up. "This doesn't look like pottery, Mr…"

"Travers," Frank said, still blustering but suddenly helpful. "I have no idea what that is. Someone must have hidden it in there. It's certainly not mine."

"No?" Sherlock asked brightly. "Let's just see about that." He started to reach for another piece, watching Frank's face carefully. John could see Frank looked slightly relieved—right until Sherlock took a different figurine and gleefully smashed it to the ground, releasing another identical packet.

"Can you explain this, Mr. Travers?" Lestrade asked.

"I … I don't know …" Frank's eyes darted around, and then he exploded, "But look at my booth! Who's going to pay for my stuff?"

"I think you have more serious concerns at the moment, Mr. Travers," Lestrade told him. "Smuggling is a very serious violation."

"But what about him?" Frank wasn't even listening. He didn't even struggle as Lestrade cuffed him and read him his rights. "I want him arrested for what he did to my booth!"

John was almost surprised to see him staring at Anderson, when clearly the man was clueless and Sherlock had been the instigator. Anderson obviously felt the same way. "It wasn't my fault. He pushed me!"

Rather than responding with a heated retort, Sherlock just nodded calmly. "Yes, of course."

"You … you admit it, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked, forehead wrinkled.

"Of course, how else were we going to smash Frank's pottery to reveal his smuggling? Naturally, we staged the entire thing … didn't we, Anderson? I must say, you were surprisingly convincing. One would think you really hated me."

Anderson just blinked. "I … that is … you …"

"Oh dear, I think he must have hit his head. Is there a doctor here who could check him out?"

John just shook his head. "I'm standing right here, Sherlock."

"What luck that the man who made all this wonderful furniture is also a talented trauma surgeon," Sherlock said in a ringing voice. "He'll see you right, Anderson, if you actually hurt yourself during your brave undercover work."

John just pushed past him to give Anderson a quick look-over. "No cuts that I can see. Did you hit your head?"

"Yes, Anderson," Sherlock inserted quietly, "Do feel free to avail yourself of a handy excuse for your usual lack of mental acuity."

Anderson still looked dazed. "What?"

Sally had stepped closer, too, as John examined Anderson. "Yes, what are you on about, Freak?"

"Me?" Sherlock asked innocently. "I'm just trying to be helpful. After all, Anderson was surprisingly … useful … in solving this case, I thought it was only right he get the credit. Do you have any objections?"

"You're just twisting this…" Sally spat out.

"Maybe so, but if you hadn't noticed, _Sergeant_ Donovan, it's twisting to your boyfriend's favor. Do you really want to keep complaining?"

"Right," John said, standing up and brushing his hands. "That's enough, boys and girls. If you'll excuse me, I have furniture to sell." With a friendly nod to Lestrade, he worked his way through the crowd (because there was quite a throng by this time) back to his booth. He tried to ignore what was happening across the way as the people started to move along. He saw Frank being led away, still blustering about his merchandise. Anderson had puffed up like a rooster at Lestrade's praise for his quick thinking, and Sherlock looked surprisingly content at the way things had worked out.

But really, John had little time to watch as more customers stopped to look at his wares. In that regard, his proximity to the active crime scene was helpful, as rubber-neckers took advantage of his location to gawk at the police presence across the aisle. Some of them even bought things.

After a time, Sherlock found his way back to John's booth and helped with his newfound popularity by trying to deduce which customers actually had room for his pieces and hurrying along the ones who did not.

Really, Sherlock might not exactly be a "people person" but he had a knack for insight that any sales person would envy.

#

It wasn't until the end of the day that the crowds (shoppers and gawkers alike) had dwindled enough that John had a moment to spare for other things.

Lisa had come by at one point to praise Sherlock for his "heroic" actions (her choice of words). "I never much liked him, but I never thought he was doing anything _illegal_," she said, blinking up at Sherlock with wide eyes. "However did you figure it out?"

"Yes, Sherlock," John asked, amused. "How _did_ you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about. I was merely the victim of an unpleasant altercation which culminated in the discovery of evidence being revealed when the man's wares were shattered. It was purely good fortune that the man with whom I was fighting was a police officer."

Lisa practically cooed at this, and John raised an amused eyebrow at the scene, wondering if he could reach his phone for a photo before Sherlock pulled away. "Yes, _Steve_, that was awfully lucky, wasn't it?"

"And that the police responded so quickly!" Lisa put in. "It makes me feel safer, just knowing that they're so on top of things."

"Indeed," Sherlock said with a nod. "It's reassuring to know that they're not always complete idiots." He glanced over at John, who was watching the customer who had just entered the booth. "They're not stupid enough to think that Frank Travers could manage alone, either."

"He couldn't?"

"With his level of intelligence? Simply not possible that he would have carried this off on his own," Sherlock said, stepping to the left. "Nor did he have the international contacts necessary—unlike, say, a vendor from America who traveled over three thousand miles for our little craft show?"

Lisa looked confused as she blinked faster. "I don't know what…"

"Of course you do," Sherlock told her, leaning forward to loom in that way he did so well. "Why else would you have been checking on Frank so often during the show? It certainly wasn't because you thought he was competition—with his atrocious pottery? It was almost suspicious every time he made a sale, because really, who would want anything of his? No aesthetic value at all. But you … you were checking to make sure the pieces _you_ wanted were still intact."

Her face had frozen now. "I … no … you're wrong. I kept coming over here because …" She let the sentence trail off as she looked longingly up at his face, fingers resting on Sherlock's arm in a way that made John want to burst into laughter. Sherlock was the last person in the world who would respond to that kind of blatant come-on—if he even recognized it in the first place.

"Don't be absurd. I'm not your type—I'm not nearly psychotic enough for you. Pity Jim is off the market," Sherlock said. "No, you're here on business. The police confiscated three of Frank's pieces … but there were four, weren't there?" His voice almost whispered the question as John looked between him and the customer playing with his drop spindles.

"Were there?" Lisa asked, voice uncertain as she stared up at Sherlock.

"You tell me." His voice was just a step above a husky whisper now as he stared into her eyes.

Then her face changed. She stood straighter and the near-simpering smile dropped away. "Look, just give it to me and there won't be a problem. I'll even give you a cut. I know that you and, er, John here are struggling but so am I. Things are tough everywhere, you know? And I like you, Steve, I have since we literally bumped into the other night. I can't afford to lose all of those. I need it."

John tried not to wince at the way her voice shook on the last words, but he braced himself, edging forward, around the furniture blocking the floor. (What had he been thinking, putting obstacles in the middle of his booth?) He could see her desperation and knew that, the minute Sherlock refused, she was going to do something drastic.

And she would have, too, she had just stepped toward Sherlock, her hand reaching for something in her pocket when Sally moved forward, one of John's spindles in her hands. She pressed the tip against the woman's ribs and told her not to move, buying just enough time for Sherlock to reach into her pocket to remove the 5" knife she had hidden there.

He looked over at John with a reassuring smile as Sally arrested Lisa, and then he picked up the spindle she'd left lying on the floor. "I really do need to learn how to use one of these, John. They seem very handy to have around."

#

Later, John asked if Sherlock had known that both Lisa and Frank had been involved.

"I suspected Lisa from the start, if only because it seemed so unusual that she'd come to a comparatively small show. I know it was hard for you to get a booth, but still—it's not exactly international caliber, so what was an American doing there? And then Frank … he was so _obvious_. All bluster and bombast. My god, his recruiting skills were actually hilarious."

"Bit heavy-handed, yeah," John agreed, taking a sip of his tea. "How'd you know he was hiding things in the pottery?"

Sherlock tilted his head. "It seemed obvious. Not easy to search, but easy enough to get your goods out of with a nice, satisfying smash."

John grinned. "It was satisfying, wasn't it?"

"Oh yes, very. Reminded me of my childhood."

John couldn't help a chuckle at that. He had no trouble believing that Sherlock had broken any number of fragile, ceramic things as a child. The silence stretched companionably for a while and then John asked, "Why did you let Anderson take the credit?"

Sherlock smirked. "Well, it seemed only fair, John. I'd had all the fun of throwing him into the booth, and after all, he _was_ instrumental in cracking the case."

John snorted at the choice of verbs. "He smashed it wide open, in fact."

"Couldn't have done it without him. Of course, he left himself little ground to stand on since he swung the first punch…"

"Which you used to swing _him_."

"Yes, to make a gratifying smash of some of the ugliest pottery it's been my misfortune to see, made by one of the more unpleasant suspects we've met recently…"

"Who you made me spend hours with last night for no reason whatsoever," John put in. "Don't think I'm going to forget that any time soon."

Sherlock tilted his head. "Well, there was a reason, I just ran out of time. But still, when else would I get the pleasure of throwing Anderson without reprisals? By implying that he had been privy to the plan, I deflated any argument he might make."

"Or any charges he might choose to make."

"All things considered, allowing him some of the credit is a small price to pay. After all," Sherlock added with a thoughtful sip of his tea, "It's not like he doesn't know the truth."

John shook his head in amusement. "All's well that ends well in the end, though. Lestrade got his villains, and I actually made a profit, which is a wonder."

He was flattered at the honest look of surprise on Sherlock's face. "Really? Why? Your things are … quite impressive. Why wouldn't you make a profit?"

"Like I said, most people who come to these shows aren't interested in big-ticket items, and handmade furniture isn't exactly cheap. I usually spend most of my time sitting alone."

Sherlock just blinked at him for a moment. "But that's not right. Your things are…"

"Impressive, yes, you said. And thanks for that," John took another sip. "But still—you can't change the facts. Today was unusual—and not just because we caught a smuggler. I really owe Sally credit for the drop spindle idea. Maybe I should branch out into spinning tools, since they seem quite popular."

"And such good weapons," Sherlock added. "Which reminds me…" He put his cup aside and got up to rummage in the pocket of his coat. He turned back to John, spindle in his hand. "Would you show me how to use this damn thing?"

##

THE END


End file.
